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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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http://www.archive.org/details/selectedverseproOObick 



SELECTED 
VERSE and PROSE 



By 

Hannah M. Bickley 



Edited by 

M. Grace Houseman 



Philadelphia 
1917 






Copyright 1917 

by 

M. Grace Houseman 



/ 



APR 10 1917 



GI.A460248 



Contents 

Portrait Frontispiece 

Memoir — M. Grace Houseman .... 5 

Verse 

Un forgotten IS 

The Yesterdays 17 

The Old Year 19 

A Beautiful Hand 21 

My Country Home 22 

The New Preacher 24 

I'd Give, If I Had More 27 

The Message of the Shadows .... 30 

To Rev. George Bickley Houseman . . 32 

In Memory of John C. Burns, M. D. . . 34 

Beyond 36 

Hymn, Church of Our Savior . . . . 37 

Hymn for Mother's Day 38 

Mother's Day Hymn 39 



Contents — Prose 

Autobiography of a Cane 43 

Autobiography of an Old Bible 49 

Our Paper 64 

A Stone's Story 66 

Story of a Collection Basket .... 70 

Retirement of Mr. Wm. Rodgers ... 73 

Twelve Visitors 

Thanksgiving 82 

Birthdays 86 

Vacation 89 

A Costly Sacrifice 91 

Father Time's Visit 94 

An Appreciation of Lettie Hackman Ban ton 97 

Life's Day 100 



MEMOIR 

THE deepest and most sacred experi- 
ences of life are those we silently 
treasure in our hearts. Thus it is when 
Death takes one of our very own. In 
the ensuing darkness and silence, who 
can voice the sense of loss, or do aught 
with the overwhelming rush of precious 
memories but to lock them forever in 
the heart? 

So I feel at this moment, as I sit in the 
vacant room of my loved one. A thous- 
and memories of the past, when "the 
day was no longer than her kindness, ,! 
come crowding in upon me, but my pen 
is powerless to give them expression. 
Yet, if Maeterlinck said truly that "the 
dead are never dead until they are for- 
gotten" then my dear Aunt will live 
long in the hearts of her many friends 
and loved ones; and, believing that to 
them this little volume will be welcome, 
I shall here attempt to outline the facts 
of her life, and to add, as best I may, my 
tribute of affection. 



Hannah M. Bickley was a daughter of 
the late Rev. George and Mary Williams 
Bickley, and was the ninth of a family 
of eleven children, only two of whom 
are now living. Born at Crescentville, 
Philadelphia, her childhood was spent 
here and at Montgomery Square (her 
" country home," shown in illustration 
facing page 22) . As a child she delighted 
in composing verses, and even in her im- 
mature school exercises gave promise of 
literary talent. From her mother's Welsh 
ancestry, she probably inherited her love 
of poetry and her retiring, sensitive dis- 
position. 

Her early education was received in 
the country schools, and here, as else- 
where, her keen intellect usually won for 
her a place at the head of her classes. 
After her parents had removed to Frank- 
ford, she completed a course at Peirce 
Business College. For some time she was 
a successful teacher in the schools of Dela- 
ware and Montgomery Counties, but after 
her mother's death she resigned her posi- 
tion as teacher to assume new duties, and 
with ease and grace she presided over her 



father's home while he lived. In his 
loneliness he was cheered by her loving 
solicitude for his comfort, and her artistic 
touches made the home attractive. 

Always a student, household duties 
did not occupy her time to the exclusion 
of her literary pursuits, and she was one 
of the honor graduates of the Pioneer 
Class of Chautauqua. In 1881 her short 
story, "Ernestine West," was published. 
For a number of years she was principal 
of the Bookkeeping Department of Beth- 
any College. Always actively identified 
with the work of the church, for more 
than thirty years she was an earnest and 
successful teacher in the Sunday school 
of Central M. E. Church, Frankford, of 
which her father was one of the founders. 
An enthusiastic worker in the Woman's 
Foreign Missionary Society, for some 
years she filled most capably the office of 
District Secretary. She was interested 
in the Auxiliary Society of her home 
church from its inception, and it was 
through her efforts that the Mission 
Band was organized. 

The underlying motive which impelled 



her to literary work was the hope that 
she might write something that should 
leave a lasting impress for good, and 
lead others to love the Master whom she 
served. In making the selection for this 
little book, it has been somewhat dif- 
ficult to know what she would have 
deemed worthy of publication. She 
was extremely modest about having 
any claim to literary merit, and I 
have been guided solely by what I 
think would have been her wish in this 
matter. 

From among the many hymns she 
wrote, I have chosen three of the most 
recent, two of these having been written 
at the request of her nephew, Dr. G. 
Bickley Burns, for Calvary M. E. Church, 
and sung by the congregation on Mother's 
Day. The "Autobiography of an Old 
Bible" and 'The New Preacher," written 
long ago, have been recopied several times 
in religious periodicals. Many of the 
prose articles were written for the paper 
of her home church, "The Central Rec- 
ord." Two of her poems, "Where are 
the Yesterdays" and "Beyond," at the 



suggestion of her pastor, Dr. C. E. 
Adamson, were read by him at her 
funeral services. 

During the last eighteen months of her 
life, she was in a semi-invalid condition, 
at times suffering intensely. In the early 
part of her illness, she was greatly cheered 
by the visits of her brother, the late Rev. 
C. W. Bickley. The close bond of mutual 
affection which had existed between them 
since childhood was severed only by his 
death in October, 1915, and but nine 
months later she, too, heard the "one 
clear call," and "crossed the bar." 

These meagre facts leave so much 
unsaid, but heart-throbs, not words, 
must tell the story. Those for whom this 
little book is intended must read between 
the lines, as they recall the purity of her 
life, her beautiful Christian character, 
and the sincerity of her friendships. 
Unswerving in loyalty to her kindred, 
how untiring was her devotion to those 
she loved! Never forgetting a favor be- 
stowed upon herself, how ready she was 
at all times to bestow kindness on others! 
There was a depth of tenderness in her 



nature for the wretched, the poor and 
the unfortunate. 

"The human heart paints and cherishes 
its own pictures of its loved ones. These 
are not the pictures the world sees. They 
are richer, truer, more tender." She was 
so like a mother to me that words fail 
utterly to tell of the numberless, quiet, 
self-sacrificing ways in which she ex- 
pressed to me the love of her heart. 

Death may rob us of our dear ones, but 
love lives on, for surely "the outreach of 
the heart/ ' the yearning to meet again, 
are but proofs of its immortality. We of 
the home circle will sorely miss her coun- 
sel, her wealth of disinterested love, and 
"heart at leisure from itself to soothe and 
sympathize/ ' They are our common 
treasure of memory, to brighten our path- 
way and to inspire us with the hope that 
some day, through God's dear love, we 
shall meet again in the Homeland. 

"I cannot think of them as dead, 
Who walk with me no more ; 
Along the path of life I tread, 
They have but gone before. 



10 



The Father's House is mansioned fair 

Beyond my vision dim ; 
All souls are His, and here or there 

Are living unto Him. 

And still their silent ministry 
Within my heart hath place, 

As when on earth they walked with me 
And met me face to face. 

Their lives are made forever mine ; 

What they to me have been 
Hath left henceforth its seal and sign 

Engraven deep within. 

Mine are they by an ownership 
Nor Time nor Death can free ; 

For God hath given to Love to keep 
Its own eternally. " 

M. Grace Houseman. 



11 



Verse 




13 



Unforgotten 

At Easter-time when south winds blow, 
And life with beauty blends, 

My heart awakes, and thrills anew 
With love for old-time friends. 




15 



The Yesterdays 

Where are the yesterdays? gone, gone forever! 

Freighted with gladness, with sorrow and sin; 
And if we could, we would not live them over, 

So marred by error the brightest have been. 

Back in the yesterdays, there have been 

partings — 

Partings that made our hearts quiver and 

bleed ; 

But Gilead's balm has eased the cruel smarting, 

And grace has abounded to cover our need. 

Ah ! in the yesterdays, there have been shadows — 

Shadows which hung o'er our way like a pall; 

But Faith struggled on through the pain and 

the darkness, 

And Christ was our helper, our light and 

our all. 

Memory whispers of deeds all unholy, 

Of thoughts, vile and dark, that have 
shadowed the heart, 

The Spirit's kind wooings we've rashly resisted, 
Yet, wondrous mercy — He did not depart! 



17 



The Yesterdays, too, had their measure of 
gladness; 
The light was made brighter because of the 
shade ; 
The love of our Father-God crowned all the 
journey; 
Smooth, by His hand, the rough places were 
made. 



Under the cross we would put the mixed record ; 

Washed in the blood, gracious Lord, may it be ; 
And grant that today and our coming tomorrows 

Be better and purer, devoted to Thee. 



18 



The Old Year 

Twelve months ago, from God, 

In unstained purity, 
Began the year which now has gone 

Back to eternity. 
Oh, precious solemn loan! 

By the great Father lent — 
A year of opportunities, 

With treasures all unspent. 

Filled with — we knew not what, 

Its sorrows or its cheer — 
What victories or weak defeats 

Should fill the coming year. 
'Tis registered in Heaven, 

What record does it bear? 
Its thoughts and words and deeds will all 

One day confront us there. 

Its new-made graves we mourn, 

Yet Faith our doubting stills ; 
We'll not forget; but help us, Lord, 

To feel that Mercy wills. 
Gather the trailing love 

By earth's rude tempests riven, 
Train it around Thine own dear cross 

That it may bloom in Heaven. 



19 



We claim Thee for our guide ; 

Led by Thy blood-stained hand, 
Love makes the rugged way grow smooth, 

Bloom fills the desert land. 
Just at this new year's dawn, 

O God, Thy Spirit give, 
For in the coming years, we would 

Unto Thy glory live. 

When our last year is spent, 

And from that land unknown 
Our summons comes to leave this world, 

To stand before God's throne, — 
Laden with ripened sheaves, 

May our glad spirits rise, 
And know, with Christ's crowned workers 
there, 

"Who winneth souls is wise." 



20 



A Beautiful Hand 

Is it a hand all soft and fair, 

That ne'er goes gloveless in the air? 

With tapering fingers, decked with rings, 

Too frail to touch life's common things? 

Too fair to make a loaf of bread, 

Or soothe a sufferer's aching head? 

Too small to do its share of good, 

Or earn an honest livelihood? 

That shrinks, as from the direst doom, 

From dish-cloth, scrubbing-brush or broom? 

If such, a pretty hand must be, 

Why, then, a plainer one for me! 

Although quite brown it may be found, 
Or scarred may grow in duty's round, 
The useful hand, where'er it be, 
Is very beautiful to me : 
The hand that weeping widows press ; 
The hand that sobbing orphans bless ; 
The hand that strives with all its might 
To crush the wrong — to aid the right; 
That points the erring to the skies, 
Moved to each act by the All-Wise, 
Who treasures in His heaven above 
Each sacrifice and deed of love. 



21 



My Country Home 

My dear country home, of my childhood a part, 
Thy mem'ries are fondly enshrined in my heart! 
I love the tall trees with their wide-spreading 

boughs, 
The old-fashioned barn with its plentiful mows. 

The meadow, the spring-house, the strawberry 

bed, 
The orchard where apples hung luscious and red, 
The long, shady lane and the cool, mossy brook, 
The violets hid in some dark, sheltered nook, 

The hill near the schoolhouse where quickly 

we sped 
On cold winter days, armed with coaster and sled. 
When lessons were ended, what laughter and fun ! 
We scarcely could wait till our school-tasks were 

done! 



Ah! yes, I have left thee, my dear country 

home, — 
The years bear me onward, but though I should 

roam 
Amid lawns and gardens embellished by art, 
They cannot obliterate thee from my heart. 



22 




"My dear country home, of my childhood a part, 
Thy memories are fondly enshrined in my heart!" 



My dear cou -i my child 

mdly enshrined in 
I love the tall 
boughs, 

Th' 



Thf 

Tlv urdwhei 

The brook, 

The I nook, 

iped 



Amid lawr 






Though others may think them surpassingly 

fair, 
To me, with thy rude scenes they cannot 

compare ; 
A feeling of sadness steals over my soul — 
A flood of home-sickness I cannot control. 

For memory pictures the home scenes within, 
The true, loyal hearts that were nearest of kin, — 
My father, who seemed like a king in his might, 
So strong to protect us, so firm for the right, 

And mother! dear mother, so gentle and sweet, 
Her life with devotion and service replete! 
We children, so care-free, who played round 

that hearth, 
Look back to those days as the brightest on 

earth. 



23 



The New Preacher 

At a pleasant country station, 
Full of eager expectation, 
Sat a waiting congregation 
At church one Sabbath morn. 

The sun poured in a flood of light, 
Which fell on heads by time made white ; 
On sunny curls and faces bright, 
That lovely Sabbath morn. 

There sat the young and beautiful, 
There sat the good and dutiful, 
The aged and the sorrowful, 
That Christian Sabbath morn. 




There for the first, with form and 

feature 
Resembling much a fellow creature, 
Within the pulpit their new preacher 
Appeared that Sabbath morn. 

/ 1 \VA He spoke with freedom, zeal and 
^i U* power; 

To him it was a blissful hour; 
Twelve — tolled the bell in the 
old tower 
That did the church adorn. 



24 



Some lingered at the close of meeting, 
To give the brethren friendly greeting ; 
I've not the power of repeating 
All that was said that morn. 

For butcher, baker, lawyer, teacher — 
People of every trade and feature, 
All criticised the humble preacher, 
Whom they had heard that morn. 



The lawyer said: " He'll not suit me — 
No flowery strains, no fluency, 
No logic nor philosophy, 
His sermon did adorn." 

The farmer said : " He is too mild ; 
He seems as gentle as a child ; 
The Bishop surely must be wild 
To send us such a man!" 

An old man said: "He spoke too low — 
My hearing is not good, you know; 
Besides, he read too much, and so 
I cannot like the man." 

A sister said: "He is too tall, 
His hands too large — his eyes too small, 
I do not like his looks at all ; 
They sent us the wrong man. 



25 



"And then his wife, depend upon it, 
She'll not suit here with that gay bonnet; 
I'm sure she had a flower on it, 
And she our preacher's wife!" 

Another pious soul sincere, 
Who gave full fifty cents a year, 
Said to his consort fair: "My dear, 
I never in my life 

"Did go to church to criticise, 
But this vain man" (he wiped his eyes, 
And paused to give vent to his sighs,) 
"I never will support.' ' 

But there were some both wise and good, 
A blessing to the neighborhood, 
Who spoke as good -folk always should, 
With Christian charity. 

Oh ! could the wind have overheard 
Each idle, criticising word, 
"The servant's not above his Lord — " 
It must have sadly moaned. 

Useless attempt to please mankind ! 
Fault-finders you will always find, 
Though all the virtues be combined 
In any great divine. 

26 



I'd Give If I Had More 

The heavy hand of poverty, 
Upon my heart weighs heavily ; 
'Twould be the greatest joy to me 
To give, if I had more. 

At my complaints, some people scoff; 
('Tis true, this year, I'm better off,) 
But I am troubled with a cough 
And ought to lay up store. 



Fate has been pretty good to me — 
This week my uncle died in B., 
He left me quite a legacy — 
I need the money sore. 

A pale-faced widow called today 
For help, — her rent she could not pay; 
It pained me so to turn away — 
Fd give, if I had more. 



My house is plain — the walls are bare — 
I want a picture here and there — 
I should have these — it is but fair, 
And then I'll help the poor. 

The child of my departed friend 
Asks alms — my liberal heart 'twill rend ! 
I'm building, so, of course, must send 
The poor child from my door. 

27 



I heard a sermon yesternight — 
The subject was the widow's mite; 
I liked it well, it was just right — 
'Twould suit some three or four. 

A worthy widow that I know, 
(Improvident a trifle, though,) 
If taxes ever should get low 
I'd help, for Fd have more. 

Bank-stocks are up, I understand — 
My agent made some on my land, 
And higher rents I shall demand 
To swell my scanty store. 

Yes, Providence is good to me! 
A faithful steward I will be ; 
The world shall see my charity, 
When I've a little more. 

That pale-faced widow's dead, O dear! 
Ah ! many a charitable tear 
Fell in my kerchief, as the bier 
Was carried past my door. 

A thin-clad orphan, sobbing low, 
Followed the corpse — O world of woe ! 
Fd give that child a home, I know, 
If Fd a little more. 



28 



The world says I'm a millionaire; 
They ask assistance everywhere 



Dear me! I've nothing more to spare 
Now, than I had before. 



It costs so much to live in style, 
That I am stinted all the while, 
(Though some incredulously smile,) 
I'd give, if I had more. 

If I am always bothered so, 
Ere to my grave I'm called to go, 
I'll make a will that all may know 
How much I love the poor ! 



Fair Charity her wings did fold 
And wept his folly to behold — 
Amidst his stores of ill-used gold 
The poor intestate died. 



29 



The Message of the Shadows 

The lengthening shadows crept stealthily down, 
And flung their dark mantle o'er city and town, 
Till work-a-day folk — their daily tasks o'er, 
Went hurrying homeward from office and store. 

Through alley and street as they eagerly sped, 
The pavements re-echoed their myriad tread — 
The graceful, the awkward, the short and the tall ; 
The deepening twilight enfolded them all. 

The coming of darkness far over the hill 
Soon silenced the whirr of the great, busy mill; 
It brought to the toilers a gladsome release, 
And brooded o'er all with its message of peace. 

O'er the fields gently waving with tall, tasselled 

grain; 
And where cattle were browsing on hillside and 

plain, 
Until through the bars they were eager to come, 
While harvesters merrily whistled of home. 

At the schoolhouse the shadows crept in through 

the door, 
While the children's glad eyes watched them 

stretch o'er the floor; 
And the teacher saw, too, for to tired nerve and 

brain 
The cool, restful shadows were welcome again. 

30 



And so with us all, when our life's day is o'er, 
When death's darker shadow shall fall at our 

door, 
May we, unafraid, greet the summons to come, 
And welcome the shadows that beckon us Home ! 



31 



Lines Written to 
Rev. George Bickley Houseman on his 
Birthday, when in Scottsdale, Arizona, 

December, 1899. 

Far over the hills on the prairies 

Stands a cottage, wide-spreading but low, 

Where the orange- trees nod at the windows, 
And ever the summer winds blow. 



There lingers my nephew beloved, — 

A king at the door of his tent, 
With a heart that is broad as the ocean, 

And a will that on goodness is bent. 

The same moon that beams on our village 
Keeps watch o'er that far-distant cot, 

While the teasing stars wink at the distance 
That keeps us so far from the spot. 

west winds, our sad hearts go with thee! 
They wander away and away — 

They follow the sun in his journey, 

For he shines on our loved one each day. 

Now old Father Time, ever busy, 
That up-building, down-tearing sage, 

1 believe, on the tenth of December, 

Has tampered again with your age. 

32 




Rev. George Bicklev Houseman 



R 

Birthday, when 

Decern] 



i 






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I've been reading a sweet little poem 
That mentions some great ones of earth 

Whose wealth could not purchase affection, — 
True love is of such priceless worth. 

Many kings whose crowns glittered with jewels, 
Whose coffers were swollen with gold, 

While false courtiers fawningly served them, 
Have found the world empty and cold. 

And they've envied the honest man's portion, — 

A purpose in life true and high, 
And a heart brimming o'er with love's bounty, 

Too noble for money to buy. 

Though fate with rough hand from your 
pathway 

May things highly valued withhold, 
You are rich both on earth and in Heaven 

In treasure not purchased with gold. 

Not vainly you've wrought in life's struggle; 

Despite its disaster and tears, 
You've garnered a plentiful harvest 

Of love in these twenty-eight years ! 



33 



In Memory of John C. Burns, M. D, 

Who Died on Tuesday, March 22, 
1887, in His Twenty-fourth Year 

Farewell, beloved one, farewell! 
Eternity alone can tell 
Why one so pure, so fond yet brave 
Should go, so early, to the grave. 



We listen for thy welcome call, 
Thy manly step along the hall ; 
We grieve to see thy empty chair- 
Darling, we miss thee everywhere! 



We go into thy vacant room 
With aching hearts, and look with gloom 
Upon the work thy hands have wrought, 
In years of careful toil and thought. 



From childhood's hours to manhood's days, 
We watched with pride thy noble ways — 
Thy character so true and rare, 
Fulfillment of a mother's prayer. 



We're glad that in the heavenly land 
There are no wrecks upon the strand — 
No broken hearts — like ours tonight, 
In that blest home of joy and light. 

34 



O, Lord! 'neath thy afflicting hand 

We bow, nor can we understand ; 

Let not our faith trail in the dust — 

For, though Thou slayest, we would trust! 



35 



Beyond 

When trials o'erwhelm us, 
When sinking with care, 

Faith whispers of light, 

Help, and love waiting there, 

For in that fair city, 

Beyond all the strife, 
The turmoil and sorrow 

Of this blighted life, 

There's waiting a welcome — 
Heaven's gate will unclose 

To earth's tired pilgrims 
A wealth of repose. 

The journey is measured ; 

The soul's rest will come, 
When the arms of the Infinite 

Gather us home. 



36 



Hymn, Church of Our Savior 
Tune — St. Catharine 

Church of our Savior ! guiding star 
Through clouds of sin, in this dark world, 
Thy blessed radiance gleams afar ; 
Thy glorious banners are unfurled. 
Church of our Savior, guiding star, 
How wonderful thy triumphs are ! 

Church of our Savior! mercy's shrine, 
Where contrite sinners welcome find, 
Thy holy prayers and hymns divine 
Around our hearts are closely twined. 
Church of our Savior, mercy's shrine, 
What sacred ministries are thine ! 

Church of our fathers ! school of grace ! 
How many holy men of might 
Have at thine altars seen the face 
Of Him who is of life the Light ! 
Church of our Savior! school of grace! 
Fling wide thy doors to all our race ! 



37 



Hymn for Mother's Day 

Tune — St. Hilda 

As childhood's cares were fleeter, 

Soothed by a mother's grace, 
And infant slumbers sweeter 

Beneath her bending face, 
So all our joys were dearer — 

She charmed our griefs away; 
Her prayers made duty clearer, 

In manhood's sterner day. 

She rose with us in power, 

She gloried in our gain, 
And in affliction's hour 

She suffered with our pain. 
Ah, sweet domestic charmer! 

Though often did we rove, 
About us was this armor — 

Undying mother-love ! 

Unshrinking friend in danger, 

Sweet comforter in loss, 
Most tender at the manger, 

Most loyal at the cross ! 
O Love, in hearts maternal 

We but thy shadow see ! 
Thy heights and depths eternal, 

Behold on Calvary! 



38 



Mother's Day Hymn 

Tune — Spohr 

Accept today our grateful praise, 

Thou blessed Lord above, 
For that sweet token of Thy grace, 

The gift of mother-love ; 
For that dear friend, whose tender care 

Encompassed all our years, 
Whose sweet and holy cradle songs, 

Allayed our infant fears. 

Her hand upon our childish heads 

In benedictions lay; 
We flew for refuge to her breast 

In sorrow's darkest day. 
And still, when battling with the world, 

We miss that safe retreat — 
That never failing sympathy 

In triumph and defeat. 

Alas ! the best of earthly love 

Is but a flick'ring fire. 
The limits of humanity 

Restrain its fond desire. 
O, Thou who are omnipotent, 

Enthroned in power above, 
Our weakness cover with Thy strength ! 

Enfold us with Thy love ! 



39 



Prose 
Selections 




& 



41 




J 



The Autobiography of A Cane 

DO not imagine I will give you my 
whole history. These few pages 
would not begin to hold it, and if I would, 
from my memory have faded many events 
of my long and varied life. Trees 
have a broad, free existence. They 
are full of Nature's secrets; full of 
beauty and poetry. They tremble 
beneath 

"The ghostly shadows of the 
night's high moon." 

They laugh when daybreak says, 

11 Unto the forest, ' Shout ! 
// Hang all your leafy banners 

W out/ " 

The great old poet Isaiah knew 

U? about them when he wrote, "The 

mountains and the hills shall break 

forth before you into singing, and all the 

trees of the fields shall clap their hands.' ' 

I am proud of my ancestry. The 

Walnuts are no mean family. As trees, 

we have long been loved and honored by 

the great and gifted. Quayle, in "God's 

Out-of-Doors M says: "A walnut tree is 



43 



very beautiful. Its corrugations of bark, 
dark almost to blackness, are always 
possessed of witchery to the eye. I see 
through the tree as if it were dusky 
amber, the black tawniness of walnut 
wood." No wonder that through centu- 
ries walnut has been favored wood; for 
who that hath eyes to see can but love it? 
Does not Ovid refer to my grandfather as 
"The towering tree of Jove?" By the 
Greeks, we were dedicated to Diana, and 
her festivals were held beneath our boughs. 
I am a branch of a modest Pennsyl- 
vania family. The boys and girls, young 
men and maidens, and older people who 
have played and rested in my shade are 
too American to care much for birth 
distinctions. In my rural native place 
there were no millionaires, and our pretty, 
happy country girls had no dreams of 
counts and dukes. Any prince, fairy or 
poet might have envied my birthplace. 
The old world has no fairer scenery than 
the green hill where I was born, just a 
little back from the shady roadside. A 
silvery brook washed my foundations. 
Crossing the stream just beyond me was 

44 



a rustic bridge, for which one of my 
distant relatives, the Oak, gave its large, 
strong boughs. Birds sang above me; 
squirrels frisked about my leaves, and 
my companions were the winds, the dew 
and the sunshine. Summer warmth and 
gentle rains gave me beauty. Defying 
the cold blasts of winter gave me strength. 

''Beautiful even tho stripped and bare, 
Are the trees that are planted everywhere ; 
They bravely stand in the silent wood, 
Like a patient life that is nobly good." 

My budding infancy is an indistinct 
recollection. I was always slender, and 
grew low on the great, dark trunk. My 
brothers and sisters looked down on me 
for this, for I was the lowest of them all. 
I did not mind that. I enjoyed a common 
fellowship, and there were many things I 
saw and heard which they, in their more 
lofty positions, never knew. I could see 
the sweet, upturned faces of the children 
as they passed on their way to school; I 
became familiar with the older boys and 
girls; I fanned the cheek of the aged who 
sometimes rested beneath me. I knew 
more about the ways of life than did my 

45 



brothers with their heads in the clouds. 
The rustic lads of that day had a habit 
of removing the bark and tracing initials 
on the tree. I learned enough to fill out 
the omitted letters. My home was a 
trysting-place. 

"O, those happy days! Those near, yet 
far-off, days, 
Paged with dear legends, winsome with 

sweet ways, 
When spendthrift hearts all went a 

gypsying: 
Cared naught for form or statute, laws 
or king!" 

A rosy-cheeked youth, with auburn 
locks and brave, brown eyes, one dreamy 
summer afternoon, cut just below me 
with his penknife, the letters "R. W." I 
was not long in conjecturing that name. 
Trees are romantic, and their association 
makes them keen to appreciate the fair 
and lovable. I knew Rose White, or 
''White Rose," as Carl called her. She 
looked like my friends. Her cheeks were 
the color of peach blossoms ; her eyes blue 
as the sky; her laugh like the rippling 
of the brook — and I loved " White Rose" 
as well as Carl. 

46 



It would not be fair to tell all I know, so 
I will pass on to a day when I was called 
upon to make a great sacrifice. It was 
Carl's birthday; he was twenty-one. He 
came to my home with redder cheeks than 
usual. He pulled me gently toward him, 
passing his hand caressingly over me as 
he whispered: "This has been our trysting 
place, and from you I will have a cane 
made for my wedding day." O, could I 
have spoken, I am afraid I would have 
voiced my rebellion! Was this to be my 
mission? A stiff, lifeless cane? Must I 
leave my poetic, glorious life for such 
drudgery? 

I had had glimpses of such things. I 
had seen old Father Jones, who passed 
me on the way to church, wearing old- 
fashioned, rusty clothes that his children 
might go to school longer than he had 
gone. I had noticed Mrs. Smith looking 
worn and bent, carrying heavy burdens, 
that her daughter might live the ideal 
life she had missed. I had seen the 
village preacher pass on his way to some 
suffering one in his parish, when snow 
and sleet were cutting his face, and I 

47 



knew that his cheerful fireside called him 
the other way. To my credit, it may be 
said, that after these reflections, I bent 
willingly, was severed, left my Paradise, 
putting selfish joy behind me, and went 
to live for others. 

It was not all sadness. It never is. 
There is an abiding satisfaction in the 
drudgery of duty. I had some moonlight 
walks with the lovers. I went to the 
wedding. I saw the pretty little home 
Carl built for sweet " White Rose." I often 
passed my birthplace, and as the years 
rolled by, I was used for a horse by 
Carl, Jr., as he played under the shade of 
the old walnut tree; and I watched him 
raise his blue eyes, inherited from Rose, 
to the dark, almost defaced letters, "R. W" 

It is the old story, and I have been 
through it all. Carl leaned heavily on 
me one day as he headed a little proces- 
sion to the village graveyard. After that, 
he never walked again with " White Rose." 
His hair grew white, and his eyes dim, 
and I was more and more his companion. 

I am a discarded thing now, up in the 
attic. The dream is over. 



48 



Autobiography of An Old Bible 

BEING in the city of New York, in a 
large book-store, and among many 
volumes larger and smaller than myself, 
are my first distinct recollections. I was 




there several months; had been examined 
by many customers, and had been re- 
jected for my size, color, or some other 
trifling reason, until one day in December, 
1820, an old gentleman called, and after 
listening to a lengthy harangue on my 
virtues from the salesman, concluded to 
purchase me. All light was excluded by a 
thick brown paper; but I did not feel at 
all alarmed, as I was carried along under 
the old gentleman's arm. He handled 
me so tenderly, I felt at once that we 
were friends, and suggested my most 

49 



loving promises to comfort and cheer the 
dear old man. 

When I was again in the light, I 
found myself in the midst of wedding 
festivities. I was laid on a table sur- 
rounded by gifts, costly and beautiful; 
but I did not feel outdone by my gay 
companions, for my binding was the best 
morocco, and my clasps shone brightly. 
If I had been ever so plain, a consciousness 
of my inward superiority would have sus- 
tained me. They had a gay time at the 
wedding, and I enjoyed it, for I thought, 
"To everything there is a season, and a 
time to every purpose under the heaven/ ' 

A great many curious eyes inspected 
the gifts, and I received several compli- 
ments. I learned, too, from some remarks 
made near me, that I was in the new home 
of George and Fannie Edwards, who were 
married that evening. They came with 
the rest to look at us, and I at once 
admired my manly master and bright 
Fannie. The hand was full and fair 
she laid caressingly on my red covers 
(which the bloom on her cheek rivaled) 
as she exclaimed, "This is from good 

50 



Uncle John!" There were just a few 
things I wanted to say on this first day 
in the new home ; but the clasps were over 
my mouth, and I was obliged to be quiet. 

Fannie was an active housekeeper, and 
in a few days I had a place assigned me, 
while peace and order seemed to reign in 
the cottage. I confess my disappoint- 
ment at being placed in the front parlor, 
on an out-of-the-way table, all alone. I 
felt cold and isolated as my side pressed 
the chilly marble on the stand; besides, I 
had some advice for these people, and 
I felt hurt that I was not consulted. I 
wanted them to be as noble as the Bereans 
and I whispered "Search the Scriptures, 
for in them ye think ye have eternal life," 
but no one heard me. 

I soon found that the front parlor 
was only used for company; all we 
heard was but the echo of the home 
life. Fannie came nearly every morn- 
ing to open the windows, and often 
dusted me, but I felt mortified to know 
that I was no more attractive than the 
table on which I lay. She appeared 
happy; and I longed to tell her I con- 

51 



tained a talisman that would always keep 
her so — for I feared the dark days sin 
thrusts into every life — but I was a 
captive. 

One evening the parlor was filled with 
guests. I thought that George, in his 
strength and manliness, and Fannie, in 
her grace and beauty, excelled them all. 
I had learned to love them, and I was 
troubled to think we were not friends. 
During the evening, among other refresh- 
ments, wine was brought in. Was ever a 
friend more perplexed? Oh! I groaned 
in spirit, "Who hath woe?" but no sound 
could issue from my closed lids. George 
drank freely, and not until a late hour 
was the parlor deserted. It was the 
saddest night I ever spent. 

It was late the next day when the 
windows were opened. Fannie had a 
tired look, and she did not sing any. She 
sat down by the table where I lay, and 
leaned her head on me. It was hot and 
I knew it ached badly. "Alas!" I 
thought, "So near, and yet so far away." 
Why could not I tell her, "Whoso 
hearkeneth unto me shall dwell safely," 

52 



and "Great peace have they who love 
Thy law?" There were many evenings 
like that I have described; and many 
mornings when Fannie looked heart-sick. 
George threw himself wearily on the sofa, 
while I repeated to myself, "Wherefore 
do ye spend money for that which is not 
bread, and your labor for that which 
satisfieth not?" I could not tell them, 
"The blessing of the Lord, it maketh 
rich; and He addeth no sorrow with it." 

Five years passed away — I was still in 
the parlor. One day Fannie came in, 
and after arranging the furniture, picked 
me up, exclaiming, " How you have faded ; 
in such a short time, too!" If I had been 
more sensitive about my appearance, I 
might have cared for this remark; but 
I knew the beauty of truth was imperish- 
able, so it did not trouble me any — 
indeed, I was glad, for the result of her 
examination was, that I should be taken 
to the sitting-room and kept in the 
bookcase. 

How I wished she would let me fall, 
or that Willie, who was pulling at her 
dress, would reach me — anything to have 

53 



my mouth loosed — I wanted to speak so 
badly ! I knew I should have spoken long 
before. She had needed me sorely these 
five years. Her face was faded quite as 
much as mine, and I thought I read pain 
in the quick heart-throbs against my 
covers on our way to the sitting-room. 
Disappointed, I reached the book-case in 
safety. "Alas!" I thought, "My people 
will not consider." For my comfort, I 
repeated, "So shall my word be that 
goeth forth out of my mouth : it shall not 
return unto me void." 

I was pleased to notice that the 
doors of my new home were glass, and 
elevated as I was, on the top shelf, 
I could see all that was going on. 
There were toys lying on the floor, a low 
rocking-chair by the fire, and directly op- 
posite the book-case, a sofa. I thought the 
furniture looked as worn as I did myself. 
There used to be a servant; but I discov- 
ered there was none now. By Fannie's deft 
fingers the room was soon put in order, 
then, picking up Willie, she sat down in 
the low rocking-chair to sing him to 
sleep. His yellow curls hung over her 

54 



arm, while with one dimpled hand he 
smoothed her face. At last, charmed by 
the low songs, the hand dropped, and 
Willie was very lovingly laid on the sofa. 
I knew that he was dearer to her than all 
the world beside, yet there was no prayer 
breathed over that couch for his safety. 
The afternoon wore away, Willie awoke, 
and Fannie prepared supper. Then I 
noticed she glanced nervously from the 
clock to the door, again and again. How 
I wished I could climb down from the 
shelf and go over and keep her company! 
I tired of the tea-kettle's song before I 
heard George's step. Willie looked up 
fearfully when he did come, and Fannie 
seemed relieved. I knew there was a 
shadow on this home — and imagined I 
saw it stretching darkly back to the first 
evening when they had wine at the party. 
If I could have warned them that night! 
The meal was not passed very pleasantly. 
I thought, "Better is a dinner on herbs 
where love is." After supper George 
went out, and Fannie and Willie were 
alone again. The click of the needle and 
hum of the toys sounded drearily to me. 

55 



When Willie grew tired and crept up on 
his mother's lap, I saw teardrops shining 
on the yellow curls, and the little head 
nestled closer as if to comfort her: when 
it grew very late, the two went lonely 
and scared upstairs. 

Poor Fannie! I had a treasury of 
sympathy for her, but I could not 
repeat one word to the troubled heart. 
Late in the night, I heard George's 
unsteady step. Alas! for the manliness 
that was once my boast! Intemperance 
was fast crushing it. This was the idol in 
which Fannie had reposed her trust. I 
sighed, "Put not your trust in princes, 
nor in the son of man, in whom there is no 
help. ,, I was learning rapidly in the book- 
case, and all that night I mourned my 
captivity more than ever. 

There were times when the cloud that 
shadowed the cottage seemed broken, and 
let the sunshine of a few pleasant days 
through; but the contrast made the 
darker ones more wretched. One dark 
day I shall never forget. Supper was 
ready; twilight had come on, but George 
had not gotten home. It was storming, 

56 



fearfully, and the rain beat against the 
window-panes, then trickled down like 
tears. Before the sofa kneeled Fannie, — 
her spirit in a greater tempest than there 
was outside. All blighted by disease lay 
the one idolized flower of this home. 

On the sofa Willie was tossing with a 
burning fever. Fannie had tried, in a 
husky voice, all the songs she knew to 
woo him to sleep. I knew so many 
beautiful psalms — if she had known only 
one — if from her heart she could have 
sung my ninety-first, it would have 
helped her so; but her soul was houseless 
in the tempest. It was nearly midnight 
when George got home, and, though 
slightly intoxicated, his suffering child 
and pale, tired wife seemed to arouse him. 
They carried Willie upstairs, while I sat 
staring at the flickering firelight, un- 
touched supper and deserted sofa. 

Three days passed and I had not seen 
Willie. I was just thinking on what must 
have happened, when some one passed 
through with a little coffin — then I knew 
all and it was very hard to keep quiet. 
In the afternoon, Willie was carried once 

" 57 



more through the sitting-room. I just 
caught a glimpse of the white, quiet face 
and yellow hair. I knew they took him 
into my old home, the front parlor, and 
I longed to follow him, that I might look 
at him a little longer. My meditations 
were interrupted by the clergyman, who 
opened the book-case and took me down. 
Now I knew that I could speak, and 
while he unfastened my clasps (which had 
actually grown rusty) I looked around on 
my audience. The room was nearly full, 
and I felt that I must warn them, so I 
began: "All flesh is grass, and all the 
godliness thereof is as the flower of the 
field: The grass wi there th, the flower 
fadeth." But when I heard Fannie's 
bitter cry, and then looked at the pale 
lips that had so often kissed away his 
mother's sorrow, and the still hands that 
had smoothed away vexatious lines from 
her face; I said, as tenderly as I could, 
" Suffer little children, and forbid them 
not to come unto me, for of such is the 
kingdom of Heaven/ ' Fannie paused to 
listen, and even George gave me an ap- 
proving glance. Then I was laid in the 

58 



window, while they carried out the light 
of our home. 

I watched as long as I could that 
dark hearse and line of carriages. It 
was dark when I heard them come 
back; and the next day I knew things 
were going on as usual, only there 
was no comfort in anything. During 
the morning Fannie came in, very deso- 
late looking, picked me up and went out 
to the low rocking chair. I would not 
look where the toys used to be, but every- 
thing was a reminder — even the hand that 
held me. How sorry I felt as the hot tears 
fell on my side ! Fannie looked round to see 
that no one was near — I knew she would 
be ashamed to be seen in my company. 
She began turning over the leaves, and 
I helped her find what I was sure she was 
looking for, and through sad, tear-dimmed 
eyes she looked at me while I again 
repeated, "Suffer little children to come 
unto me." 

I told her many precious things; 
she shook her head, saying that they 
were all for Willie but none for her, 
and she cried, "We shall never meet 

59 



again!" I talked of the dear Savior who 
forgives seventy times seven, and told 
her, " Though your sins are as scarlet, 
they shall be as white as snow; though 
they be red like crimson, they shall be as 
wool. ,, She was not comforted, but I 
knew she would come again. I was 
stored away in the book-case before 
George came home, and neither men- 
tioned me. I whispered, "The fear of 
man bringeth a snare.' ' George soon left 
to gather comfort somewhere else. When 
it grew very late, the time seemed in- 
supportable to Fannie. Almost in de- 
spair, she drew me down. 

I pitied her so I scarcely knew what 
to tell her first. How glad I was 
that my treasury was so rich! That 
I had such precious promises from 
our beloved Lord! I said, "As one 
whom his mother comforteth, so will I 
comfort you." "Like as a father 
pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth." 
I talked of the "lost," the "chief of 
sinners," the "prodigal son," and the 
"Friend of publicans;" gave examples of 
prayers offered in faith that had prevailed, 

60 



until she too cried into that willing, 
listening ear, "Be merciful to me a sinner/ ' 
All heaven rejoiced, for the " heavy 
laden' ' found rest. Willie was dead and 
George was not there — but my friends 
were. David and Solomon sang for her. 
Isaiah said, "The Lord hath anointed 
me to preach good tidings unto the meek : 
He hath sent me to bind up the broken 
hearted — to appoint unto them that 
mourn, beauty for ashes, the oil of joy 
for mourning, the garment of praise for 
the spirit of heaviness/ ' In the midst 
of our rejoicing, George came home. He 
did not see anyone, only Fannie and the 
big, faded Bible, and when she tried to 
tell him (for she was not ashamed of me 
now) he smiled incredulously, and turned 
away. I whispered, "The secret of the 
Lord is with them who fear him/ ' My med- 
itations were very pleasant that night ; my 
lids were closed, but I did not sleep any. 
This is 1873, — fifty-three years since I 
went with Uncle John to the wedding. 
Those who knew me then, would scarcely 
know me now. I have lost my clasps, 
and the gilt letters are effaced from my 

61 



back (which you never would think had 
been red), but I am a very happy old 
book; a great deal happier than when I 
was a parlor ornament. My life has been 
a success after all. Poor Fannie ! There is 
another grave by Willie's. I had to talk 
at another gathering in the little front 
parlor. It would have been a dreadful 
task if I had not known so much about 
the other, better world, where all tears 
are wiped from off all faces. My 
friend, John, had a glimpse through the 
pearly gates; and we talked about it 
together. 

When I looked at the form that I loved 
with all the truth of a Bible, I kept 
repeating for my comfort, "I am the 
resurrection and the life : he that believeth 
in me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
live." Fannie and I were true friends 
for the few years she stayed with us after 
Willie died, and as long as she ^needed 
me, I was "a lamp to her feet." I gave 
these words for her tombstone: "Under 
the shadow of the Almighty/ ' George 
is an old man now; his hair is white, and 
his brow furrowed. The prayer of his 

62 



dying wife has been answered: "Sanctify 
them through thy truth: thy word is 
truth/ ' We live together in the greatest 
harmony. His gratitude to Him who 
accepted him in the eleventh hour is 
unbounded: forgiven much, he loves 
much. On my fly leaf he has written, 
"Thy testimonies are wonderful: there- 
fore does my soul keep them." 

Nowhere can you find two happier 
friends than George and Uncle John's 
bridal gift. 



63 



Our Paper 

Written for the initial number of The Central Record 

THERE are a few old things that are 
considered better than new — old 

wine, old associations, old friends; but as a 

general thing the new are more attractive. 

The New Year! How 
gladly we hail it! No sin 
in it — no heartache. Even 
the aged shake off the shack- 
les of the past, and a gleam 
of youthful light sparkles 
in the dim eye as they look 
forward to it. The old year 
was not what we expected. 
In it there were hurts of 
different kinds — broken 

plans, unfaithful friends, and graves. 

The old days are a part of forever. 

"Let them go since we cannot retrieve 
them, 
Cannot undo and cannot atone; 
God in His mercy, receive and forgive 
them! 
Only the new days are our own." 

Surely in the new there is some " sweet 
hope" hidden! 




64 



The New Worker! Experience has 
never hidden his faith, nor disappoint- 
ment crushed his hope, nor criticism 
chilled his zeal. With head erect and 
spring-time vigor, he enters on his work, 
full of expectant triumph. 

The New Convert! The first love of 
the young Christian! 

Is there a higher, holier joy in all 
eternity? 

Our New Paper! The first number 
you will receive today. It comes to greet 
you, full of faith and hope. The hands 
reached out to receive it are all friendly, 
for it has no enemies. It has never 
recorded a slander, a sarcasm, nor re- 
proach; it has caused no cheek to burn 
with shame, anger, or grief. It is untried 
— like the new year, the new worker, and 
the new convert. Keep it pure by your 
prayers, happy by your charity, intelli- 
gent by careful effort, and as on Sunday 
it is carried from God's house to yours, 
may it link the two together — a sort of 
family tie, binding us to the Church and 
to our common Father-God. 



65 



A Stone's Story 



MY existence began about six thou- 
sand years ago — at least, so I 
believe. Science teaches a great deal about 
" Periods' ' and changes that I cannot 
understand. The "Recent Period' ' is all 
I can grasp, but then I know that I am 
thick-headed. 

My early home was in a 
dark, damp quarry. The 
inside of the earth is like 
the outside — busy. The 
Stone family is old and dis- 
tinguished. A great many 
of its members were brought 
into prominence in the 
Eastern Continent, while I 
lay in obscurity in the 
earth. A sort of cousin of 
mine supported the head of 
he saw that wonderful 
ladder reaching up to Heaven. About 
1400 B. C. twelve of my relatives did 
Joshua pitch in Gilgal as a memorial, 
saying to the children of Israel, "When 
your children shall ask their fathers in 




Jacob when 



66 







^ '--^fffl 




Central M. E. Church, Frankford 






iVr exi 

JL^JL sand 



thou- 
ut 



in a 

The 

th is like 






;Ut 

iid 
hen 



W\4u*V\ f iVnwAO .'& Ah Wv^v^ , m 






time to come, saying, 'What mean these 
stones?' Then ye shall let your children 
know, saying, 'Israel came over this 
Jordan on dry land/ " 

We number in our family the mighty 
pyramids, "those sharp tents of stone 
pitched against the blue sky of Egypt/ ' 
the majestic colossi at Thebes, the Great 
Sphinx, and the wonderful obelisks, one 
of which has come over to my part of the 
world. We formed an important part 
of the beautiful temple of Jerusalem and 
the magnificent buildings of Rome and 
Greece. 

Progress with rapid strides came over 
to our lands, drove the dark-faced Indians, 
with their weird costumes, away from 
their wild, free home, and civilization 
with magic hands adorned our hills with 
noisy cities, and our valleys with well- 
tilled farms. I was found in my obscurity, 
brought out into the fresh air and bright 
sunshine and was given a place in the 
Central Church tower. How glad I am 
to be a part of such a house! I would 
rather roll down and away to my old, 
lonely quarry and hide my face in the dirt 

67 



until the destruction of the world, than 
to help build a liquor saloon or any 
other building to draw men away from 
God. I am no " rolling stone" — our 
financial report will show that; nor am 
I the " Philosopher's Stone, " which turned 
everything it touched to gold; though if 
the precepts are followed which are 
taught in our church, "The blessing of 
the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth 
no sorrow with it." 

A distant cousin of mine, in David's 
time, went on a missionary tour and for 
the protection of Israel killed a mighty 
giant. I am a home missionary and with 
my fellows am trying to protect Israel of 
today from the giants of sin. 

I pity the great pyramids, holding 
their dead kings in their stony hearts. 
In the warm heart of the church is the 
living King of kings with love and power 
to bless the world. 

Sometimes in passing, our tower may 
remind you of the mighty Memnon, 
which gave forth a long musical sound 
when the first rays of the morning sun 
fell upon it. When the beams of the Sun 

68 



of righteousness fall upon the hearts of the 
worshippers in our auditorium, my home 
echoes with songs of praise — none sweeter 
than: 

"Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in thee." 

And there are wonderful texts about the 
" chief corner-stone" and "The stone that 
smote the image that became a great 
mountain, and filled the whole earth/ ' 

My history is not finished, for I am just 
in the prime of life and expect to be useful 
long after my readers are resting in the 
earth from which I came. "Ye also, as 
lively stones, are built up a spiritual 
house.' ' "He that hath an ear, let him 
hear what the Spirit saith unto the 
churches; to him that overcometh will 
I give to eat of the hidden manna, and 
I will give him a white stone, and in the 
stone a new name written, which no 
man knoweth saving he that receive th it." 



69 



Story of a Collection Basket 

DO not imagine that I will give you 
my whole history. This paper would 
not begin to hold it. 

I belong to an old family. If you have 
read or travelled much, you have surely 
heard of us. "Willow" is our name. I 



-r>~ESsga 




think we were distantly related to the 
Willows of Babylon, on which the poor 
homesick Israelites hung their harps, and 
we are willing now, as then, to do a good 
turn for God's Israel in a strange land. 
Any fairy or poet might have envied 
my birthplace. No site along the 
Hudson can compare with the fair, green 
meadow where I was born. A merry 
brook washed the foundations of my 
home. Birds sang above me, and my 
companions were the winds, the dew and 
the sunshine, while sweet wild flowers 
grew in my shadow. No wonder I am a 
poetical creature! 

70 



I am glad, as I am capable of being, 
that the old blind man, of whom I have 
not time to tell you, formed me into a 
church basket. I am just as glad, too, 
that Methodists bought me and carried 
me to Central, for after the free, bright 
life I led among the Willows, I am afraid 
that the other churches, good and true 
as they are, might have been a little 
formal for me. I love good, old-fashioned 
Methodist singing; then, too, Methodists 
love "collection baskets," and "love 
begets love," so we get along very nicely 
together. 

I form an important part of the service. 
I am the subject of many a pun, and 
songs grow full of joy as I grow full of 
money. 

Several times on Sunday, in a dignified 
manner, I pass up and down the aisle, 
paying a friendly visit to each pew, the 
ushers stepping lightest when I am 
heaviest, thus giving an opportunity to 
any basket having good eyesight to 
become acquainted with the members of 
the congregation. Of course, time, and 
the spring and autumn fashions make 

71 



some changes in their appearance, but 
we have no fault to find with suitable 
changes; for as Willows, in summer we 
were green, and in winter, brown; and as 
money receivers, Jehoida, the priest, had 
a chest, and we a basket. And slight 
changes do not keep us from recognizing 
our members. 

I live most of the time under a chair 
in the pulpit, within hearing of "Line 
upon line and precept upon precept," 
and when our Pastor grows eloquent over 
the dear old story of the cross, the house 
resounds with shouts until over in my 
hiding place I tremble. If some glad 
Sunday morning I hold enough to pay 
for our new parsonage, look for the coins 
to jingle and the envelopes to quiver for 
joy, for do not think me entirely insen- 
sate! My grandparents were trees, and 
does not the Psalmist say: " Praise ye 
the Lord, mountains and all hills, fruit- 
ful trees and all cedars/ ! And does not 
Isaiah say: "The mountains and the hills 
shall break forth before you into singing, 
and all the trees of the field shall clap 
their hands ?" 



72 



Written at the Request of the Ladies' 

Aid Society, on the Retirement of 

Mr. Wm. Rodgers 

HAVE you ever, at the breaking up of 
a home, when the old folks have 
gone to Heaven, searched in the attic and 
brought to light old things stored away 
through the years? How you pause and 
dream! For joy and sorrow, failure and 
success, hurts and comforts are brought 
out like moving pictures in your memory, 
till the shabby, wornout things seem 
living and sacred! 

As I turned over the pages of the first 
book of our Mite Society, it was like 
opening the shutters of a long-closed 
room. Facts, things and people gradually 
became clear to my mental vision — 
pictures of our unfinished church — the 
new floor, in which men and women were 
ambitious to drive a nail; the new furni- 
ture; our brand new carpet; our first 
organ; first Bible and hymn book; our 
first congregation; the earnest, anxious 
old faces; the hopeful, happy young ones; 
the optimists and pessimists; the indif- 

73 



ferent and the curious who came to look 
on our struggle and lastly on our triumph 
— all these were brought back by the 
old book. 

Our Mite Society was born of necessity, 
cradled in enthusiasm, nurtured in zeal 
and sustained by Providence. 

At our first meeting, held May 11, 
1876, we sang from the old hymn-book 
the 150th hymn, beginning, "A charge 
to keep I have," and sang earnestly, 
feeling the responsibility of the charge. 

The list of members and officers has 
been sifted. Here and there, as }^ou read 
the record, one has dropped out; but in 
every picture memory reveals, we see 
the form of Mr. Rodgers. More erect in 
that first year of voluntary service, his 
face wearing fewer lines of care — yet the 
same kindly, interested countenance with 
which he greets us today. 

There was a Centennial Tea Party and 
a Centennial Supper (our people took ad- 
vantage of '76) ; there were fairs, dinners, 
festivals — a little of everything, in fact 
(continued up to 1909), and Brother 
Rodgers figured in them all. 

74 



When on Sunday morning we slept a 
little later, and at our ease went to church, 
we found it heated, aired and dusted. 
How seldom have we given a thought to 
the early worker! Who in the last thirty- 
three years was in greater demand than 
he? How many (hundreds, I believe!) 
have asked him for odd gloves, overshoes, 
handkerchiefs, umbrellas and pocket- 
books? 

How grateful we should be to him for 
lessons in tidiness, when in our Sunday- 
school room he occasionally hid our 
song-books, which we carelessly left lying 
around in the dust! How often, in our 
early evening devotions, have we seen 
him coming in with that menacing gas- 
lighter! He has been called on for every- 
thing, even to breaking open the organ! 
As we have learned to love Central, we 
have learned to love him, too, for he 
seems a part of it. The highest calling 
is not to be ministered unto, but to 
minister. 

He arranged our church for its gayest 
occasions — our glad Easter days, church 
and sacred communion suppers; and we 

75 



appreciate his reverent touches when our 
beloved dead lay at her altars. I believe 
every Pastor has carried away some 
loving memory of Mr. Rodgers. 

Tonight our Ladies Aid Society gladly 
adds its word in appreciation of our ever 
willing helper. 



76 



Twelve Visitors 



WHEN our first visitor came, the 
world sang with Tennyson, "Ring 
out, wild bells to the wild sky!" The 
streets were noisy with expectant people. 
Tramping of feet and firing of 
guns indicated a world awake 
at midnight. We waited for 
him with watching and prayer. 
Companies of Christians were 
kneeling at church altars when 
he came in softly. They trem- 
bled with fear of contaminat- 
ing him, for he was pure and 
young, and some of them were 
old and sin-laden. But the 
impression wore away as they 
scattered to their homes and 
rushed on again with life's 
activities. He was not long 
in becoming acclimated with 
the old sinful world. He bit 
the toes and fingers of children 
scantily clad, and made old 
folks shiver and bend, and the poor look 
anxiously at their coal bins. Still he 




77 



brought to the young skating and sleigh- 
ing, and fireside joys for us all. 

He was followed by a dark, short youth. 
The world was too frozen up to make 
much of his coming. Cupid tried to make 
a little diversion for him about the four- 
teenth. He boasted of some historical 
prestige, which was celebrated on the 
twenty-second. One cloudy day he was 
carried off in a gale and we have not 
heard of him since. 

That same gale brought our third. 
The bare trees shivered and shutters 
slammed at his approach. It was Mon- 
day, and the frozen clothes on the line 
rattled a chilly welcome to the bluster- 
ing fellow. He made a stir through- 
out the United States four days after he 
came, and a little later on he shook up 
the Methodist Conference. No matter 
how the wind blew, the preachers' wives 
cleaned house, and numberless books 
were tumbled from cozy shelves into 
packing boxes. 

Our fourth visitor was a perfect con- 
tradiction. Laughing and crying, we 
never became accustomed to her moods. 



78 



But we loved her, for she brought us 
Easter. Nature loved her too, and gave 
her buds and early flowers — 

"And domed the red-plowed hills 
With loving blue." 

The thrush and blackbirds made her 
welcome. She brought showers, but 
sunshine and the rainbow. 

We could find no fault with our fifth 
visitor. Her name is a synonym for all 
that is lovely. When the poet wanted to 
tell of a joy that was independent of 
circumstances, he said, " December's as 
pleasant as May." Her welcome was 
universal. The sun shone brighter. The 
trees hung with blossoms. Flowers and 
green grass sprang up at her tread. The 
birds shook their wings for joy and sang 
their sweetest songs. Old and young 
rejoiced in her coming. 

Her sister came after her. Her heart 
was warm, her tread was soft, and her 
arms were full of roses. She scattered 
them everywhere. The gardens looked 
like Eden. The bees scented them and 
hummed happily. She threw wild ones 

79 



along the roadside — choice ones in the 
hot-houses. She dashed them against 
cottage windows — such lovely colors! 
Red, white, pink and yellow! She made 
the world look beautiful, so that teachers 
and children could not keep their eyes 
on their books, being only black and 
white, and they shut up the schools and 
took a long holiday. 

Our next two visitors wore light, 
shimmering garments. Their hot breath 
turned the harvest fields yellow and made 
the people tired. Sun umbrellas, ther- 
mometers and the price of fans went up. 
The city folks began to think. They 
remembered the big, cool ocean, the 
breezy mountain and their dear country 
relations. But our visitors were far from 
useless. They perfected fruits, grains and 
vegetables. While half the world had a 
holiday, the other half stored away the 
good things. 

Their departure was followed by a busy 
little plodder who loudly rang the church 
and school bells. As rapidly as train 
and boat could bring them from all di- 
rections, the folks came home. Many a 

80 



tired one looked refreshed, and pale cheeks 
were reddened. Even the leaves caught a 
little of the reflection, which was deep- 
ened by our next visitor — a perfect artist, 
who made the woods look glorious ! 

A gloomy fellow followed, who threw 
"cold water' ' over everything — a regular 
old Puritan! He redeemed himself by 
giving a grand holiday. Nearly every 
dinner was a feast. He reminded the 
people of all their mercies, and they 
bowed their heads and thanked God. 

Our last friend is just about leaving us. 
Everybody loves him. He brought the 
happiest day on the calendar. 

I have not told you all. The twelve 
brought failures and poverty; crime and 
punishment; bereavement and sorrow. 
They brought opportunities and success; 
purity and reward; life and joy. They 
are coming again to some of us. It lies 
in our power to make them a blessing 
or a curse. 

11 Shake hands before you die, 
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. 
What is it we can do for you? 
Speak out before you die." 

81 



Thanksgiving 

SOME one has said, " October is the 
afternoon month of the year, with its 
golden lights and velvet shadows and its 
undertone of repose." November might 
be called the twilight, the time for reflec- 
tion — a fitting place in the calendar for 
Thanksgiving! But where shall our grati- 
tude begin? 

"The world is so full of a number of 
things, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as 
kings." 

We thank God for the earth on which 
we live. We love her sky, her mountains 
and her seas, her broad prairies and lonely 
deserts. We love her great cities, throb- 
bing with restless life, and her country 
homes nestling among the hills and by 



82 



the running streams. We love the quiet 
places where our beloved dead await the 
resurrection. 

" Somewhere, I know not where, there 

waits a spot 
In the still bosom of dear Mother Earth, 
Where I, life's sorrows ended and its 

mirth, 
Shall lay me down as child upon its cot, 
To rest and sleep, all vexing cares forgot.' ' 

We are grateful for the seasons — beau- 
tiful spring, warm, restful summer and 

" Autumn, Lord of fruits and flowers, 
God's almoner to all the tribes of men." 

We are thankful for the fireside joys 
of winter — 

"Blow, blow, ye winds! 
Not all the winds that blow 
Can quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow!" 

What a desert the world would be 
without books ! How thankful we are for 
the Book of books, our light and comfort 
that uplifts our aims and gives us a 
glimpse of life eternal ! For Sabbath days 
and church homes we are thankful, for 
all moral victories for ourselves and those 
we love. The Lord has been "round 



83 



about His people, as the mountains are 
round about Jerusalem/ ' We can rest 
in safety, for 

" God's in His Heaven — 
All's right with the world." 

Emerson says, U A friend may well be 
reckoned the masterpiece of nature." We 
thank God for friendship — the Ruths 
and Jonathans we have found along life's 
way. We are thankful for love, the 
father and mother love that sheltered our 
childhood. ' ' There is an enduring tender- 
ness in the love of a mother — it is neither 
to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted 
by danger, nor weakened by worthless- 
ness, nor stifled by ingratitude/ ' 

Clara Louisa Burnham says of love, 
"Oh, chillen, my pore tongue can't tell 
you of the beauty and goodness of the 
fairy Love ! She's the messenger of a great 
King, and spends her whole time a-bles- 
sin' folks. Her hair shines with the gold 
of the sun ; her eyes send out soft beams ; 
her gown is white, and when she moves, 
'tis as if forget-me-nots and violets was 
runnin' in little streams among its folds. 

84 



Ah, chillen, she's the blessin' o' the world! 
Her soft arms are stretched out to 
gather in and comfort every sorrowin' 
heart." 

" Greater love hath no man than this, 
that a man lay down his life for his 
friends/ ' We are thankful for Jesus. 
"For God so loved the world, that He 
gave His only begotten Son that whoso- 
ever believeth on Him shall have ever- 
lasting life." We are thankful for such 
a God. 



85 



Birthdays 

THE baby's birthday, — what a happy 
event ! How father and mother, uncle 
and aunt, all join to do her honor! Some 
one for whom she was named sends a ring. 
Was there ever a prettier finger or sweeter 
hand? As the soft, dimpled, fairy-like 
thing spreads out in your palm, who can 
refrain from kissing it? Happy, love- 
surrounded baby, one year old! 

Thirteen birthdays have come and gone. 
She is quite a girl now — almost ready for 
the high school. She was a lovely baby, 
but was there ever any one more inter- 
esting than an up-to-date school-girl? 
Her mother thinks not, as in the morning 
she helps her don the golf cape, and gives 
her rosy lips fourteen kisses for her 
birthday. 

Six more years have slipped away so 
quickly you can scarcely believe it. The 
finger that held the baby ring has long 
outgrown it. It is a pretty hand still, 
young and fresh. On the third finger is 
another ring, and she has found another 
friend. Although she looks back as she 

86 



leaves the old, true home-lovers, yet 
she goes, and is happy, too. 

Twenty-five added birthdays! O life, 
not so quickly! Yet, in the noonday our 
heroine is surrounded by joys. Not the 
old, careless ones, but real joys after all. 
Earthly love still makes the fireside the 
happiest place on earth and she is con- 
tent. O Time, rest awhile! 

"Swifter than a weaver's shuttle," 
thirty-five more birthdays come and go. 
Where is the pet of the household, born 
eighty years ago? Come with me — 
tread softly. She is dozing in the great 
arm-chair, before the silent hearth. She 
is dreaming of the past and of the graves 
in which her loved ones are sleeping. 
Her hands are folded. The left is on top. 
There is the golden band — only so thin! 
Surely this is not the baby hand once so 
fondly caressed — this withered, bony 
thing on which the veins stand like ropes. 
These sunken, bloodless lips cannot be 
the rosy mouth her mother kissed back 
in the years. Is this the beautiful, love- 
wooed maiden who, at twenty, laughingly 
left the old home? She could not tell 



87 



you clearly herself. So many sorrows 
have troubled her heart and brain, the 
latter refuses to give events in their order. 
When her dim eyes look out she feels what 
she cannot express — "I know, where'er I 
go, that there hath passed away a glory 
from the earth/ ' Time is as cruel as he 
is generous. He gives and he blights. 
The old gray head is lifted. Light 
breaks over the saddened face. Listen! 
It is Christmas morning, the Savior's 
birthday. She hears the carols just 
outside the window: 

11 Peace on earth, good will toward men." 

Because the Savior had a birthday, 
grandmother has one abiding joy after 
all. Old Time is destroying her earthly 
tabernacle, but she has a peace he cannot 
touch, of which the carol singers remind 
her — Peace that bridges over the river 
of death and leads to immortality. "Not 
as the world giveth." A joy beginning in 
infancy and lasting eternally. 

We thank Thee, our Father, for Thy 
precious Christmas gift. 



88 



Vacation 

EACH month has its peculiar attrac- 
tions. June reminds us of roses, 
beauty, sunshine, commencements and 
vacation. Just beyond, the hot months 
are waiting, and busy brains begin to 
plan for rest and change. 

If we have had no special losses through 
the year and duty releases us, we look 
around and ask, "Where shall we go?" 
There is inspiration in the mountain, the 
sea, great rivers and grand cities. There 
is beckoning rest in the quiet farmhouse, 
in the woods and meadows, and by the 
side of bubbling springs and running 
brooks. 

Some cannot go, but are ever held by 
the unceasing round of an unchanging 
duty. Did not our Master spend the 
first thirty years of His life in the same 
way, among common people, in common 
places? 

We are travelers; life is a journey. If 
we go by parlor car or stage coach, the 
destination is the same. Some stop at 
grander hotels than others, but there are 

89 



beautiful things common to us all. The 
heavens in their varied beauty give 
pictures to everybody. The wild flowers 
are for all God's children. 

" There is no price set on the lavish 

summer 
And June may be had by the poorest 

comer.' ' 

Honesty, truth and love cannot be 
bought, and he who possesses them must 
have a song in his heart by day, and rest 
by night. There is a dignity in self- 
mastery and conscious integrity, more 
beautiful than any outward adorning. 

Toward the end of our journey we 
meet at one common gateway. It is so 
narrow, earthly distinctions must be left 
this side. Spirits of queens and peasants, 
kings and beggars, sin-laden and blood- 
w^ashed go through that short valley alike 
and just on the other side, God's beloved 
behold a world whose glory no mortal can 
imagine. One moment's view will more 
than pay for all the roughness of the 
journey. 

They shall see the King in his beauty, 
and enter into rest eternal. 

90 



A Costly Sacrifice 

IN Alice Cary's "Order for a Picture," 
she could describe the little old home- 
stead, the woods and cornfields, the roses 
and the children, but, when it came to one 
face, she turned to the artist saying: 

"One word tells you all I would say, 
She is my mother ! you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown away." 

And my pen seems feeble and expres- 
sionless as I try to write of a mother's 
love. 

Appeal to your own hearts, as, like 
stars coming out on the face of the night, 
in your memories rise clusters of deeds 
beautiful and numberless — the prayers, 
the songs, the cheering words, the birth- 
day surprises, the sick days, when the 
very air of your room seemed freighted 
with tenderness and every touch was a 
benediction! Such untold economy and 
self-sacrifice! Oh! the ocean is empty 
compared to the fullness of a mother's 
love! 

It spans continents, bridges chasms 
and levels mountains. Like a halo of 



91 



glory it hovers over the cradle of her boy, 
it rings in the low lullabies, it falls like the 
dew of heaven in her kisses, till his an- 
swering smiles, like refreshed morning 
flowers, brighten her heart. Through 
his youth her loving counsels have gone 
before like a pillar of fire lighting his 
way, or like a pillar in the cloud, shielding 
from the magnifying eyes of the world 
the imperfections of his conduct. Her 
hope, like the morning sun, gilds all his 
future with golden beauty. 

There comes a night in some mother's 
history when the step whose echo was 
her joy has an uncertain sound; the eye 
that moves her soul is wildly bright with 
a strange fire; the confidence that was 
her delight is withheld and an unnamed 
dread creeps over her. 

She would not share her doubt with 
another, she would not expose her boy, — 
she would rather empty her heart out in 
the light of the world than reveal his 
shortcomings. When intemperance, (for 
this is the prowling beast that is destroy- 
ing her home nest,) has more surely en- 
slaved its victim, her evenings are a 

92 



succession of loneliness and wretchedness. 
The mountains of unpaid affection loom 
up before her and every memory is a 
sword piercing her heart. Her spirit, like 
an angel with a drooping wing, hovers 
round the haunts of folly — would she be 
unwomanly should she go there in person? 
Oh! pitying Jesus, there are still Cal- 
varies on earth upon which mothers are 
being crucified upon crosses of intem- 
perance, with swords of ingratitude in the 
hands of sons. 



93 



Father Time's Visit 

IT was the last evening of December. 
Being somewhat tired after the Christ- 
mas festivities, I drew my chair up to the 
fireplace and soon fell asleep. It must 
have been a dream, but I'll tell you what 
I saw — Old Father Time walking off with 
a big bundle. Of course, during the last 
few days I had handled bundles of differ- 
ent sizes, which may have had something 
to do with it. This special bundle had a 
mysterious look and, being of a curious 
turn of mind, I called after him, begging 
for a glimpse of the inside, and, would you 
believe it? he paused, broke the string 
which bound it, and dropped at my feet 
the packages it contained. 

There were three hundred and sixty-five. 
As I stared, they assumed a familiar air. 
Each package represented a day. They 
were marked by sorrow and joy; pain and 
comfort; defeat and victory; sin, and some 
feeble triumphs through grace. As they 
passed through my fingers, I experienced 
a heart-sinking disappointment. There 
were bereavements, too, but God's hand 



94 



was in them and they did not hurt like 
the willful acts. Fine opportunities had 
been passed unnoticed. For some trifling 
cause, old friendships had been dropped. 
Some I threw down hastily — they were 
marred by anger, pride and want of self- 
control. A whole year, and so little 
accomplished! I thought of what Long- 
fellow had written about the storm-wind 
howling from the forest, sweeping the 
red leaves away — 

" Would the sins that thou abhorest, 
O soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away!" 

There was not a perfect day in the 
whole number — yet, some were not all 
dark. There were penitent prayers, a few 
quiet deeds of mercy, attempts at loyalty 
to duty and a hunger of the soul for better 
things — then, there was the cross, its 
shadow softening the hardest lines. 

The clock was striking twelve when, 
with a sweep of his great hands, Father 
Time put them out of sight; but wdiispered 
as he turned away: "You'll face them all 
again some day." 

95 



The firing of guns and the clanging of 
bells awoke me and I realized the old 
year was gone and the new year ushered 
in — so are we hurried on by time. 

"The battle of our life is brief, 
The alarm — the struggle — the relief, 
Then sleep we side by side." 



96 



Lettie Hackman Banton 

An Appreciation 

THERE are some spirits God lends 
to earth that reveal to us what He 
intends men and women to be — noble, 
gentle, gifted and pure. Such a one was 
our young friend, Mrs. Lettie Banton, 
from her childhood till our Father called 
her back to a more congenial clime. Her 
unselfishness and bright intellect won our 
admiration, and her beauty and purity 
our love. To graces of body and mind 
were added the grace of God, and her 
last sojourn among us was a delight 
and benediction. 

Graduating at the age of eighteen and 
marrying soon after, her commencement 
and bridal gown were one. Fidelity 
characterized each place she was called 
upon to fill — daughter, scholar, wife and 
mother. The death of her mother to 
such a sensitive, loving spirit was a sore 
affliction; but trial touched her like the 

97 



shadows in a picture, more clearly re- 
vealing the loveliness of her character. 
For the world she had a smiling face, 
living out our Savior's thought, "When 
thou fastest, anoint thine head and 
wash thy face." 

The only mention she made of death 
during her last illness was in reference 
to her little six-year-old son: "If I pass 
away in this sickness, what will become 
of Durward?" All other preparation 
was made. She was so like the inhabitants 
of Heaven, it was simply going home. 
She loved everything beautiful. Music 
was her soul's special delight. 

"With Chopin the strands of life were 
often taut to the breaking point, but ere 
they snapped, their vibrations gave forth 
to us some exquisite harmonies." Mrs. 
Banton somewhat resembled him. We 
shall never forget her last visit east. We 
could almost imagine the aureole above 
the sweet, pale face among the singers in 
the choir-loft on Sunday morning, and, 
as her gifted fingers drew the bow over 
the loved Cremona violin, we were re- 
minded of Faber's words: 



98 



"My soul seems floating forever 

In an orb of ravishing sounds, 
Through faint-falling echoes of Heaven, 

'Mid beautiful earths without bounds; 
Now sighing as zephyrs in summer, 

The concords glide on like a stream, 
With a sound that is almost a silence 

Or the soundless sounds in a dream/ ' 

When she ended with the sweet melody : 

" Prepare me, my Savior! 
For Heaven, my home." 

"The gulf narrowed to a threadlike 
mere," so near seemed 
"The calm Land beyond the sea." 

Her " passing away" was like a glorious 
sunset, leaving behind a stream of golden 
memories to cheer her loved ones, and 
drawing their hearts after her through 
the golden gates. 



99 



Life's Day 

"My days are like a shadow that declineth." — Ps. 102, 11. 

1IFE is a day, " swifter than a weaver's 
-^ shuttle/' Infancy is the early dawn 
and youth the bright morning, full of hope 
and promise. To the boy how far away 
are the western hills, and how very long 
the time seems to the sunset! Like the 
untried soldier starting out with firm step, 
new uniform and bright armor, he dreams 
only of conquest. The dew of youth is on 
his brow and his eye beams with energy. 
There are hard, stony hills to climb and 
battles to be fought before noon, but what 
are hills and battles to young manhood? 
Only an impetus to his ambition. Are 
there not also shady valleys and crowns 
for the victors? 

Mothers, take care of the dawn. Youths, 
take care of the morning. You have but 
one. Keep the sin-stains off. With a 
pure earnest purpose fill it with noble 
preparation and work. The morning neg- 
lected can never be retrieved. Noon will 
bring its own duties. You will need hoard- 
ed strength and tried power to stand 

100 



firmly with the earnest workers beneath 
the scorching mid-day sun. Would you 
have a perfect day, watch every step. 
There are enemies along the road. They 
will trip you if they can. Determine 
never to fall, but if you should (what 
mortal does not?) do not let the afternoon 
find you down. Sure of promised help, 
exclaim, "Rejoice not against me, O mine 
enemy; when I fall, I shall arise/ ' 

Some battles end in victory, but the 
soldier must endure dust and smoke, fire 
and wounds. Life's afternoon brings to 
some, faded blue, a broken sword and an 
empty sleeve — and some never reach 
afternoon. The sun goes down while it is 
yet day. 

But, " behind the dim unknown, 

Standeth God within the shadow, 
Keeping watch above His own." 

There is a record of your life's day. 
There is a crown for the faithful common 
soldier as well as the general. Be sure 
to win it. Too many, like Samson, in 
dangerous ease, sleep away their oppor- 
tunities and awake crying, "Woe unto 

101 



us, for the day goeth away, for the 
shadows of the evening are stretched out." 

In the afternoon our feet stumble over 
graves; the way becomes lonely. Foes 
laugh at our falls and we grow tired, for 
even the grasshopper is a burden. Loved 
ones are gone who made the way pleasant 
and we look toward the sunset with less 
reluctance. 

Life's day leads down "to the valley 
of the shadow of death," but just the 
other side we shall be at home "in the 
house of the Lord forever.' ' 




102 



